


True and Unbroken

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Smell!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could say it was never like this before, but it'd be lie; he'd packed up everything of Sammy's he could find when his brother ran off for Stanford and stuck it all in the trunk so the scent would linger a little longer. Of course, back then he hadn't laid back in the trunk, legs dangling from the opening, head resting on his little brother's duffle to soak up the smell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True and Unbroken

It's one in the morning, Dean must be drunk. Must be because he has been at this time every morning for months now. His body might get there all on its own, just out of habit by now, without him ever touching a drop. Might. He doesn't really feel like taking that chance.

The heavy cloth cover isn't dusty when he pulls it off the Impala, motes never have a chance to build up before he can't stand it any more and has to go check on is baby. The one he _can_ check on. He can practically feel her glaring at him for keeping her hidden like this, never moving; a wild animal that still remembers the beauty of roaming free from inside the walls of its cage.

Retired. Dean fucking hates that word.

The temptation is right there to slip into the front seat and let her cradle him like the damn truck sitting out in the driveway just can't; like nothing about this fucking life can. Instead, he walks around back and pops the trunk, mechanism and sound as familiar as his own heartbeat, but still not as much as the scent that wafts over him as the lid slides up - gun oil, salt, silver and _Sammy_. Dean's throat tightens, threatening to shut down just to keep that first breath in his lungs a little longer.

In a sick way - like he has any other kind left in him - he's glad that Lisa's so worried about the drinking because it means she's totally missed his real problem.

He could say it was never like this before, but it'd be lie; he'd packed up everything of Sammy's he could find when his brother ran off for Stanford and stuck it all in the trunk so the scent would linger a little longer. Of course, back then he hadn't laid back in the trunk, legs dangling from the opening, head resting on his little brother's duffle to soak up the smell. Back then Dad would have noticed.

Now he just turns his head from side to side and wallows in the only thing that feels like home anymore. There are the usual alarm bells going off in the back of his head that leaving the trunk open is just wasting the smell, but Dean's not quite far gone enough yet to lock himself in the trunk. Sometimes he'll pick something out of the bag - only ever clothes; the duffles were the only real semblance of privacy they ever had from one another and Dean won't betray that, not even now - and just hold it; go climb in the car and close his eyes and soak in it, pretending for an hour or two that they've pulled off into some quiet, secluded spot on the side of the highway to sleep because neither of them could drive any longer. For a while he'll quit wishing he was back in hell just to be closer to Sam.

Sometimes he'll even go so far as to put the clothes on, feel the too-big tees and flannels against his skin. Those... those are bad nights; the worst and the best in equal measure. Because when he's got those clothes on, the scent all around him, he can't stop imagining it's Sam's skin against him instead; Sam's hands moving in slow caresses over his body instead of his own, the heat of Sam's strong fingers bleeding through the cloth, Sammy making him come.

It's another one of those things that wasn't quite like this before and yet still absolutely was. It's always been there, like an itch he'd never allowed himself to scratch, tucked safely in the darkest recesses of his mind where he couldn't accidentally brush up against it while he was pounding into one of the endless streams of girls that alway came too easy to be worth it. He'd never let it go as far as actively imagining it before; not when Sam was alive and maybe, somehow, could find out about it. Now it doesn't matter - won't, can't - so he's ripped the lid of of Pandora's box by the hinges and doesn't bother lying to himself that it's any other tall, shaggy-haired somebody in his mind every time he shuts his eyes and makes himself go through the motions with Lisa.

Yeah, he's a bastard, so fucking what?

It's not fair to Lisa and he knows that, gets nauseous sometimes with how unfair it is to her, but when the fuck has anything even tangentially related to Dean Winchester's life been fair? He's been in love with Sam, in one way or another, since the day they brought him home from the hospital and that's not about to change just because his brother's... gone. He puts everything he can into being a good partner for Lisa, a good dad for Ben, and that'll just have to be enough because it's all he's got to give. All that's left rattling around in the scraped-out shell of who he is.

Dean lets his hands slide down over his chest, feeling up the heat-soaked cotton of his shirt, bluntly flicking over a nipple as he inhales. He's not going to go there tonight, not yet on the desperate peak of this endless loop again, but it feels good and there's so little left that does at all, so he just repeats the move and turns his head a little farther to the side, burying his nose in his brother's duffle, and breathes.

***

Sam smells wrong.

Dean's aware that it's a weird thing to think, but it's the truth.

It takes a while for the realization to hit him; so wrapped up in Sam being here, Sam being _alive_ , has been alive all this time without Dean even knowing it - which rubs him the wrong way, as if some part of him expects to have felt Sam existing. But once the thought worms its way into his consciousness, it's virtually all he can think about.

It isn’t the only thing wrong with Sam now - that weird, muted not-a-scent that's more like blankness than the complete absence of smell - it’s just the most solid one he can put his finger on.

A dim, disgusting part of him is relieved, because somewhere along the trail of those first couple of nights he’d started to wonder how he was ever going to shove the dependence he’s developed on that fucking scent – never should have gone there, should have had faith he’d get Sam back – back into the closet. Most of him is in various states of petrified over it because when was the last time _different_ equaled _good_ in his life? Yeah, exactly.

He tries - so fucking hard, he tries - to push that feeling away, because Dean knows better than just about anybody the ways time down below can change a person and even wrong-Sam is better than no Sam at all. Except for how that ragged-edged, gaping wound where his heart used to be still hasn’t sealed, how it still aches in time to a beat that’s not the least bit related to the pulse in Sam’s chest that doesn’t even speed up when faced with a vampire of his own making. Except for how, with his sense of smell turned up to eleven and the image of Sam’s smirking face as he watched Dean get turned searing into his brain, Dean knows _that thing_ isn’t his brother.

Those couple of too-big-for-him shirts still stuffed in the bottom of Dean’s duffle in zip-top bags to keep the scent in aren’t anywhere close to Dean’s biggest problem.

***

It’s probably inevitable that it ends the way it does. Once he'd gotten Sam back, _really_ back, not an empty husk of lies – and he knew it the second his brother wrapped his arms around him and wouldn’t let go because that smell hit him like a Greyhound bus bound for Palo Alto - there really wasn’t any other way for it to end.

See, Sam’s always needed something all his own, something private to keep to himself, even if it’s just that he likes ranch dressing with his French fries better than ketchup – which Dean knows but pretends he doesn’t, because, like he said, Sam needs these things. Sam likes his secrets, always has; turns edgy and temperamental - bitch-face central - without them.

Dean’s not like that. He’s never wanted a single moment, a single inch, a single secret for himself alone because _alone_ is the last thing he’s ever wanted to be. He gives his secrets away with both hands, especially and above all to Sam; even when he tries not to, even when surrendering them is the worst possible thing he could do. Always has and probably always will. It’s kind of miracle he lasts as long as he does without his brother finding out.

The mistake comes on laundry day, because it’s the kind of opportunity Dean can’t come close to resisting. He’s not sure when this developed from slightly creepy security-blanket behavior to skeevy-stalker fetish, but it has, and having Sam around, smiling and laughing and whining about Dean’s music and angsting on the other side of the car about shit _he doesn't even remember doing_ , just infusing himself into every last piece of the tiny universe they carry around with them, has made it so much harder to contain those feelings.

Sam’s working on translating some text from an obscure Peloponnesian creole; aka living out a geek-boy wet dream at the library. And since that’s bound to take at least four hours, and since Dean long ago perfected the art of making himself obnoxious to be around in libraries, he’s got the rest of the afternoon to live out a little bit of a wet dream of his own.

He'd promised Sam he was going to take care of the laundry as he admirably restrained himself from sprinting out to the library like his shoes were on fire to get back to the motel room. It's not even a lie - he absolutely will take care of the laundry, just as soon as he’s finished with it.

For the record, Dean is aware of the numerous levels of disturbing involved in spreading his little brother’s dirty clothes out all over said little brother’s bed so he can get naked and roll around in them until he’s so out of his head on the sensation of Sam all around him that he comes all over himself with barely a finger on his dick. He’s aware, ok? Really, painfully, probably-going-to-puke-later-remembering-how-he’s-a-major-sicko, aware. He just can’t help himself.

So that’s exactly how he is, hard and aching, skin oversensitized from the rush of adrenaline and the textures of so many different fabrics rubbing against him, breathing so deep he’s a couple of good huffs away from hyperventilation when Sam walks through the motel door and stops dead.

Dean freezes like maybe if he’s really, really still Sam won’t notice the custom-framed portrait of _wrong_ in front of his eyes. Completely awful plan, but Dean hasn’t got a lot of blood going on in the upstairs regions, so cut him some slack, ok? Sam follows his lead and just stands there for long enough that it seems like the sun ought to be setting and rising over and over again through the thin-curtained window behind him.

At last – like, seriously, they just fucked with the space-time continuum here because there’s no way that was just a minute or two – Dean manages to do anything other than feel the way his heart is doing its damnedest to wriggle through his ribs and pop right out the front of his chest, _Alien_ -style, and shifts his brain into gear enough to spit, “It’s a curse!”

If Sam flutters those eyelashes any harder he’s going to float away. “A curse,” he repeats slowly, as though the words are completely foreign to him.

Alright, it's not the best lie he's ever come up with, but he's only got a couple of functioning synapses that aren't dedicated to the internal war between how very bad it would be to finish rubbing himself off on Sammy's clothes while Sam's _standing right there_ and how blistering hot it would be to have Sam actually watching him do it. Sometimes he really hates his dick.

But, hey, it's not like they haven't been slammed with some real doozies on the curse front over the years, a few that were maybe even weirder than some theoretical incestuous, clothes-humping curse, so there's a legitimate chance he might pull this off. He takes back every crappy thing he ever thought about all of the people and things that have whammied him over the years - if that history gets him out of this, he'll happily write them all thank you notes.

“Yeah, a curse," he nods fervently, clinging to hope like a life raft as he grabs at the nearest article of clothing, pointedly not looking to see what it is before balling it up over his granite-hard cock. Might as well make an attempt at modesty, right? "I picked up a curse somewhere. Fucking witch bitches.” His voice is a couple of octaves too high to make it sound particularly convincing, but at least he’s making the effort. Sam’s still just standing over there like a lump.

“A curse that makes you get naked with my laundry?”

“Yeah, well, you know, witches have a fucked up sense of humor. Or _fairies_! Fairies are even worse! And they’re, like, nudists, so… yeah. Fairies.” He should probably stop nodding so much, he’s starting to feel like a bobble head.

“And the part about rubbing your _dick_ on my laundry?” Sam’s face scrunches up like it’s trying to fit itself into half the usual acreage.

“Kinky too. Kinky little fairies.” Ok, really, time to knock it off with the nodding.

“Right,” Sam agrees matter-of-factly. He sets the leather-bound tome he’d been working on when Dean left him down on the the rickety table in the kitchenette and shucks his jacket just like it’s any other afternoon. Dean starts silently sending up thanks to every deity he’s ever met or heard of plus a couple he made up just now because _holy shit, that fucking worked_?!

But then Sam’s not going to the bathroom to wash the stain of ancient ink off of his fingers like he normally does. Instead, he’s walking closer and closer and for whatever reason, it refuses to compute in Dean’s head that Sam’s about to sit down on the lumpy mound of dirty clothes right next to him until Sam’s actually there, looking at him like he can stare right through Dean’s skull and see what he’s thinking.

“Is this the smell thing?”

 _Shit_! He actually can! Fucking fuck, Dean thought they were past the freaky psychic crap!

And apparently he just said that last bit out loud because Sam laughs, "Dude. I do _not_ need to be psychic." His hand comes down on Dean's leg just above the knee, so hot on bare skin it feels like it should a leave an imprint, twin to the one on his shoulder, and his hard-on blurts precome into whatever article of Sam's wardrobe he's currently got covering his crotch at the thought. "You sniff me, on like a daily basis. I was starting to think I needed a new deodorant or something."

Dean makes his best effort toward a persuasive denial, which mostly comes out as a stuttered, "I didn't- I wasn't-"

Sam doesn't even bother to dignify that with a response. What he does do, because evidently Sam's a man of action now or some shit, is lift that big, heavy palm off of Dean's leg and hook it around the back of his neck instead to tug his shock-stiff body in close.

Sam's neck is pressed against his face. Sam's neck, Dean's face. Sam's skin against his lips, shunting his gaspy, panicked breaths back at him over the non-existent distance between them. And it smells so good. So warm and rich when it's not just an echo clinging to used clothes but the real deal. He doesn't mean to be sucking it in like a dying man, even as he struggles to pull away, but he is, and his throbbing erection is more than pleased by this development.

"It's ok," his brother soothes, not only refusing to let up as Dean feebly fights against him, but turning his head in toward Dean so his smooth cheek presses against Dean's temple. More skin, more heat, more fucking scent trapped in this sweet, hidden little bubble Sam's made of their own two bodies.

It's _not_ ok. It's so far from ok that ok is only an abstract concept; it doesn't even share a _border_ with ok. Dean hasn't felt this right since before the hellhounds dragged him into the pit.

He hasn't got a clue when pulling away turned into pushing for more, but he suddenly becomes aware that he's practically climbing Sam like a jungle gym. His fingers keeps snagging in Sam's fine hair, dragging too hard on skin while he tries to tell his body that there's no way he can get his brother any closer and it completely fails to respond with anything but 'try fucking harder'. Then Sam's hand - those hands are going to be the goddamn death of Dean - a tentative whisper of warmth, brushes hesitantly against Dean's cock as it pushes away his flimsy, cloth shield and from that moment on he hasn't got a prayer.

Sam doesn't back off like any sane brother would after Dean's hips buck needily against his hand. Instead he cups his palm - so fucking big - around Dean and slowly strokes him as Dean does his level best to burrow his way inside of his brother's body with nothing but his nose. In his long and complicated personal history, this may not actually be the most fucked up thing he's ever done, but it's a close damn contest.

"More?" Sam pants, voice low and rough, a world away from the version Dean has known top to bottom for so long. The sound bathes him, overwhelming, perfect, filling up all the chapped, broken crevices in who Dean's sure he used to be once. He's helpless to do anything but go right back to nodding.

That hand on the back of his neck guides him again, pushing down and down and down while the other relinquishes stroking him to help shift him over onto his belly until Dean finally gets the picture and sinks down for it like a two dollar whore. He couldn't stop himself if he wanted to, and right now, with his face buried against rough denim and the hard press of a zipper over even harder flesh, he doesn't want to. All he really wants is to breathe this in so hard he passes out with the scent of it still flooding his senses.

He'd thought that being against Sam's skin was the end-all be-all, the most Sam he could possibly clog his lungs with, but he was wrong. This is Sam, the maximum Sam, so strong and real and alive he can actually taste it when he starts inhaling through his mouth on every other breath. He's soaked with it - literally and figuratively, the fabric beneath him starting to go slick with the fluid he's leaking - his brother permeating every pore, every cell, flooding him until he's certain he's going to break from it.

The heat of Sam's hand rests gently on his ass, pushing a little; encouragement he doesn't need to fuck himself against the mattress. He groans for the hot, gritty friction and Sam echoes it as Dean's breath super-heats the denim under his mouth. Whatever is going on between them is feeding on itself; the vibration of the noises Dean makes forcing more of them out of Sam, the twitch of Sam's covered cock against his lips making Dean's jerk, mirror-image, the pressure of their fingers - Sam's digging into the meat of Dean's ass, Dean's bruising little circles into the muscle of Sam's thigh - matching point for point.

This isn't like the scent thing was; not some slow-build depravity turning progressively into a need. This he's instantly addicted to, junkie-eager for another hit when he hasn't even finished the first yet.

Hopelessly, he paws at the catch of Sam's jeans, coordination shot to hell and back. Sam's not much better, but between the two of them and enough brute force to make the zipper jump it's track, they get his pants open. The rush of heat-laden scent zings through Dean like liquid electricity, pinging around under his skin so sharp and hot and thrashing that it almost hurts, makes his muscles try to lock up and shrink away. So close he's gonna die if he doesn't come.

His short, ragged nails catch on Sam's skin, leave blanched-white marks that bloom just as fast into angry red as he forces the offending fabric out of the way. Long, full, blood-dark cock laid out like an offering on rippling abs, boxers and wrecked jeans - gonna suck later, Sam's down to two pairs now - stuck around mid thigh, just far enough for Dean to scrabble and push and root his face into the sweltering, sweat-damp space between strong legs where there's more _Sam_ than air. One heavy inhale of musk so thick with the absolute, most essential smell of Sam - of Dean's _life_ \- and it's over.

The drag of breath hits his lungs like water, like PGA and gasoline just waiting for a match, spreading out into his veins, his fucking hair follicles, until every last inch of him is sizzling with it. It's a candy-coated bullet to the brain, and with the soft, tight weight of Sam's balls against his lips and the heady taste of syrup-thick oxygen on his tongue, he blacks the fuck out.

***

It might be a couple of eons for all he knows before the wash of midnight over his senses starts to fade out. His body's still tingling, snap-crackle-pop, every last nerve awake and coming out to play. His skin feels fucking carbonated, while his muscles heavy, liquid. If he's ever felt this good before he doesn't remember it.

The effort to force his two-ton eyelids up wouldn't be worth it, except he can faintly hear the sound of his brother's voice over the endorphin buzz in his head, and he sounds worried. Looks worried too, actually. And _hot_ ; all flushed and mussed and a little bit sweaty. Worried and hot.

God, this is the best fucking high Dean's ever ridden.

"Hey," Sam sighs like it's been a while since he sucked in that breath. The fingers that Dean only now realizes have been petting through his hair, skate down the side of his face, back up to cradle it in the massive breadth of Sam's palm.

His brother has great hands, Dean totally loves them. He turns his head enough to brush his lips against it, snake his tongue out along the crease of what that fortune-teller in Gainesboro had called Sam's love line. Dean had teased him about it for days back then, sixteen and fucked up on hormones and a not-yet defined or repressed churning in his gut every time he thought about the woman predicting 'one true, unbroken love' for his baby brother. He licks a broad stripe over it again like a signature and laughs giddily to himself.

He likes the way Sam tastes too, not that that's exactly a surprise.

"Dean?" Sam prompts, back to sounding worried again, and with an struggle, Dean manages to get his eyes to focus and see the slight furrow of Sam's forehead. "You ok?"

"Hmm, 'm good," he slurs with a lazy grin, voice totally destroyed. He wonders if Sam would kiss it better, and once that image is in his head, he can't do anything but go with it, nothing even vaguely resembling a filter to keep him from reaching up an uncoordinated hand and dragging Sam' head down those last couple of inches to touch their mouths together.

The touch is wet, too open because Sam gasped right before their lips met, no approximation of finesse in it and it ricochets through Dean like a sonic boom, stoking that low-grade thrum of pleasure up to a bright flare.

Maybe some other time he'd freak out about this being too much or if Sam feels obligated or doesn't want it or... he doesn't even know; his brain always seems to come up with something to be torn up over. That's why he's kinda glad it's offline now so he can just enjoy the slick give of his brother's mouth and the nervous little twitches it makes before Sammy finally starts kissing back.

Eventually - like time matters anymore - they slow it down to indolent little motions before Sam's mouth slides off of his altogether, smearing shared saliva across Dean's cheek. He relaxes fully against Dean's body then - only at that moment does Dean register that he's on his back now, groin sticky-wet and cool - the slow rhythm of his breath against Dean's jaw better than a lullaby.

"I wore your clothes," Sam says, low and quiet, ticklish on the peach-fuzzy hairs on Dean's earlobe. "When you were gone. After the Trickster, and again after your time was up. Anything that would fit me. Some of the stuff that didn't, too. Boxers, shirts, socks, anything. Didn't feel right unless there was something of yours on me."

Something hard and heavy, like a lead ball, melts away inside Dean's belly, pooling low and comforting. He hadn't even realized he was carrying it around until now that it's gone.

"That night you came back, I was standing there hugging you in your own damn underwear." Sam huffs a laugh that curls into Dean's ear and makes him shiver. As if on reflex, Sam's arm slides around his waist and pulls him in closer to his brother's body heat.

"So, we're good?" he asks, worming him own arm between Sam and the mattress until he can wrap it around slim hips. His fingers spread of their own volition, not palming the curve of Sam's ass, exactly, but close enough.

Sam's jeans are still bunched up a few inches below the soft length Dean can feel pressing against him - he wonders if Sam got off or if he was too freaked out by Dean's fucking _fainting spell_ to stay hard - but Sam doesn't seem inclined to do anything about them and Dean's still very much in favor of not moving.

"Yeah," Sam says, lifting his head a fraction to look at the array of laundry still in need of a wash scattered around them. The corners of his lips pull upward, as he lowers himself again, sidetracking to brush his mouth languidly against Dean's. "We're good."


End file.
